


blue smoke

by deltachye



Category: The Five - Fandom
Genre: Dark, Drabble Collection, F/M, POV Third Person, Romance, Spoilers, tfw nobody else likes him so u might as well write ur own fic for him to fulfill ur thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12270825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [reader x slade]" he was faint wisps of tobacco in distant memory, he was wildfire, he was broken glass shards, he was soft worn leather. he was hidden away in a cloud of blue smoke. "





	1. split lip

**Author's Note:**

> Interactive Fics Extension will plug in name blanks for the best immersive reader insert experience. Link: https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/interactivefics/pcpjpdomcbnlkbghmchnjgeejpdlonli

_sometimes you even fool yourself a bit; but it's always been a smoke and mirrors game._

* * *

 

“Jesus, Slade, the fuck happened to you?”

“I’m peachy, thanks for asking.” The older man rolled his crystalline blue eyes and pressed the bag of green peas to his chin, wincing as he did. A disgruntled swear lined his hiss of pain. Monte took a seat in front of him, turning a chair backwards. Her lips balanced between a grimace and a smile as her eyes took in his face. She whistled lowly.

“You look like shit.”

“Laying it on thick with the bedside manners ain’t you?” he retorted. It wasn’t hostile; the two had known each other long enough to discern the line between cruelty and good humour. She took the bag of peas from him wordlessly, pulling it away from his lip, which was swollen to twice its size. A smooth red line traced its edge, which oozed bright red blood as she tried to examine it. He pressed his sweater sleeve to his chin in order to catch the trail before it got anywhere else.

“What happened?” she repeated, more seriously. She crossed his office to a cabinet that held miscellaneous plasters and tore off the package of a sterile gauze strip. She laid it onto his lip before reapplying the peas. His eyes flashed with discomfort and her arm slackened, resting against his skin gently through the package.

“Had to break up a fight between the kids. Boys wouldn’t listen to me and it got physical.” He shrugged, as if to say _and that’s that_. Monte’s brow merely wrinkled.

“You’re not meant to throw yourself into every petty scrap you see, Slade.” They were commonplace in the homeless shelter he ran, but Slade would never turn away from any altercation. Even if it got him beat up to a bloody pulp.

“I hadn’t, Arryn would’ve been the one to take this.” He gestured at the mangled mess of a mouth he had to strengthen his point. “Better me than her, even if it gets me an ugly mug for a couple days. Fuck, those damn kids can really throw a punch…”

“Arryn?” It was difficult to keep track of the kids that came and went through the drop-in shelter, but a young girl’s face soon floated to mind. She was due in two months. It was hard to miss her bloated frame stumbling along, balance completely thrown. Monte sighed, understanding Slade’s good intentions, but concern continued to eat away at her stomach like acid. Ever observant, Slade’s eyes narrowed as she remained quiet, staring off into the distance as she ground her teeth absentmindedly.

“You okay, Monte?” 

“Better than you,” she murmured, bitter in tone. Slade sighed, a hand coming up and wrapping around hers. They were cold from the peas and she shuddered, an electric shock rocketing down her arm and spine as she felt roughened palms slide up her wrist.

“Sorry. You don’t need to look all mopey about it. I’m fine, really.” He tried to smile, but it looked so ridiculous on his fat lip that a sudden urge to cry and laugh at the same time sparked through her.

“Would you just take care of yourself?!” She sighed, exasperatedly. “You always get yourself in trouble whenever I’m not around.”

“You should be ‘round more often then,” he replied, brightly, with the same snap of wit and charm that characterized Slade. He was rough around the edges, sure. Frayed. But in his office, a rickety light balancing on his desk, he was gentle. He cracked down on kids’ asses, but she’d walk by every now and then, spying him comforting the misguided children as the father they’d never had. Just as nights can seem so cold and stifling, Slade was the comfort of a blanket of dark misty air. He was faint wisps of tobacco in distant memory, he was wildfire, he was broken glass shards, he was soft worn leather, and he was the man leaning forwards to kiss her.

“Ow!” he swore, sucking in a breath of sharp air as he pressed the gauze to his lip tightly, cringing away in pain. “Fuck, Monte!”

“Don’t fool around.” She chided him, but her heart rate had soared when she’d seen his light lashes bat in that way. She’d known Slade for ages, all throughout primary and secondary and forwards. It wouldn’t have been surprising if she’d come out of the womb with him attached to her side. She’d drifted now and then, away from Westbridge. Away from life, too, in the bad years. But she’d always floated back. He always dragged her back. And even though he might’ve shouted or acted cross, he always brought her back. But that didn’t mean much from him. He’d throw himself after anybody who needed help. That was who he was. “Love” from him didn’t mean what love might’ve meant to others; Slade’s love was a shared cigarette after a bad night. It was a ride out of a jail cell. It was his body thrown in front of you as somebody came in for a right hook. Perhaps that was enough for him, but couldn’t there be something past whimsical kisses…? Couldn’t there be more behind the screen of blue smoke than this? Something more than street fights and grime—something pure, for the clouds rather than the street?

He was staring, and she’d thought too much. Hastily, she smashed the peas that he’d pushed aside back onto his face to mask her loss of composure. Ignoring his whine of protest, she shook her head.

“Idiot. What’d you expect on an open cut like that? For Gods’ sake, Slade, just take it easy.”

“Kisses make boo boos better, don’t they? C’mon, Monte, be a good nurse.”

“Fucking eat my arse.” 

No matter who he was, no matter what he became, and no matter what wound on his face—his stupid grin never seemed to change. For now, shared huffs of deep and bitter smoke would have to do. But the smile would falter eventually, and even Slade would need to ask for help. Slade, always caged off to obscure his real emotions behind that smoke. Slade, always available for the darkest hour, but never the twenty-three in between. Slade, the one she had fell for—the one that tasted bitter of blood and darkness and complicated, false love.


	2. cigarette ash

“I should’ve done more.”

Slade walked up behind her silently, his heavy footsteps resonating throughout the empty chamber of the shelter. Her eyes, downcast, focused on the whimpering flames of orange candles that were scattered on the steps. It was a makeshift altar to Matthew.

The details of what had truly happened were confused amongst tangled webs and knots of overlapping stories. As far as the police were concerned, it was a gang fight gone wrong. And that was as far as the police were willing to care. They were just stupid, poor, hobos, right? Misguided youth that were sucking the good out of England. Rats that deserved to die in the gutters. 

Case closed.

So whatever truth was out there didn’t even seem to matter. Dead kids weren’t even a shock, as horrible as it sounded. Monte and Slade had grown up on the rough end of Westbridge, and funerals seemed to be more commonplace than Sunday School for them. Church was reserved for spite and heresy instead of worship. Mothers sang sacrilegious hymns, begging for the return of their angels. 

Constant exposure hadn’t made it any easier, though, and Monte’s eyes traced the singular photograph of the lean boy sadly. His dark, sunken eyes were narrowed and shifty, but she had never failed to extend a warm welcome whenever he slunk by. She had only been able to find this one photograph from some old Christmas celebration the shelter had run long ago. His voice, raspy from chain smoking, was still capable of a “thank you ma’am”. Never again would he speak.

“No,” Slade muttered softly, as if speaking loudly would disturb the peace. His arm wrapped around her shoulders automatically, shaking her side to side to loosen her stiffness. She followed his movements without a fight, lolling around as her eyes trained on Matthew’s. Slade sighed.

“We couldn’t have done anything to stop it. But we helped him for when he was alive, didn’t we? So he’s gone, but he’s at least got us to remember him. I don’t think the bloke would’ve wanted you crying after him.”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, finally reaching up to rub the stubborn bulbous tears from her cheeks. She had been trying her best to keep it in, but emotions got the better of her, and heat stung her eyes. “I cry after each one, I know… I’m sorry I’m so weak, but it’s just—”

“It’s not weakness,” he said firmly. His hand gripped her shoulder painfully tight. “It means that you care.”

“Too much?” she spat out, acridly. She tore her gaze away from the altar, blind patches of purple streaking her vision from the candle flames. Even when her eyes shut, the lines of candlelight remained burnt onto her retina. “I…” Her fists were trembling. “Why do they have to die so _fucking_ young?”

“C’mere.”

When she didn’t move, Slade wrapped her in his arms on his own initiative, tucking her head close to his chest. Her ear rested on his breast and his heart rate, loud, strong, and rhythmic, resonated throughout her. His sigh was a deep gale, warmly brushing the hairs atop her head. The way he whispered her name made it seem like it was being heralded by angels.

“I wish I did more, too. But there wasn’t anything we _could_ have done. All right? You’ve done good for him.”

She didn’t—couldn’t—reply. Her body trembled with stifled sobs, her shame preventing her from completely breaking down and emptying her sorrows out onto his flannel chamois shirt. His hand was large on her back, soothing circles rubbed out between stiff shoulder blades. The other wound tightly into her hair, comfortingly close.

“You been smoking again?” she whispered after a while. Her nose was buried deep into his jacket, the smell of wind and pine and distant cigarette smoke lining the seams. Her fingers gripped the soft leather tightly.

“You know I’ve been off it.”

“I’ll just have to take your word for it, then.” 

It wasn’t just his smoking that she had to force herself to believe. It was that even though every day felt dark, things were getting better; that even though these candles were so numerous, she was doing good in the world. It was a difficult belief to swallow. It might’ve been easier to pick up religion.

“Remember when we were kids?” Slade began, scattering her thoughts as she listened intently. “Stayed at Mark or Pru’s half the time because our dads were such deadbeats? We always snuck out again and fooled around whenever Mark went to bed—d’you remember that?”

“Of course,” she murmured, the memory warming her. 

“You used to get mad at me for smoking fags then. Told me I’d die young. You even pushed me off the tyre swing and broke my finger.”

His laugh echoed deep in his chest. Monte’s face flushed hotly as her brain recounted that fuzzy trip to A&E so long ago. Mark’s bewilderment as to what had happened when he’d been sound asleep was sweet. You remembered apologizing profusely as he and his parents stumbled out into the yard at an ungodly hour of morning to see what sort of horrible night creature was screaming profanities.

“So I’m off it,” Slade continued, softly. Both arms came around her waist now, shrugging her body close to his. Her hands were locked together around his shoulders as she leant into him, eyes fluttering shut as she listened to his voice. “I’m off it. Trust me, Monte.”

“I do,” she replied weakly. In fact, it hardly mattered whether or not Slade was still smoking. She guessed that he’d been hanging around Danny, who’d had a tough time kicking the habit, but that didn’t matter at all. It was comforting in its toxic state. And even though it was poison, the way it clung to Slade made it seem good, and made her feel good. He had that kind of air around him. She’d always known; he wasn’t the same as other schoolboys. He was vastly different, always too grown for his age no matter where he was in his life. Even with all his popularity, he was a shadow darker. Even with his crass jokes and playful demeanor, he danced with danger. He was a lone wolf type, she knew. Despite her constant companionship, he kept her distant, and her memories of him consisted of the sight of his broad back. He was always dangerous for he had that edge. There was a hardened glint in his blue eyes that often deterred most.

And yet, she clung to him. She clung to him tightly, waiting for the marks of Matthew’s candles on her retina to fade away. He began to sway, rocking her on her feet. She didn’t bother to ask what he was doing; he was always strangely kinetic, but he always knew what to do to help. The motions helped calm her emotions until she finally, she sighed, pulling back from his chest. She took a last glance to Matthew’s picture, and then blew out the candles. The smell of burnt wax floated up in curling trails of silver smoke before dissipating out of existence. Slade kissed the top of her head, so faintly that it could’ve been mistaken as a brush of the hand.

The smell of tobacco lingered on her too, as if it was marking her; and she couldn’t bring herself to mind.


	3. night walk

“Have you brought me along to drinks just for my bobby pins?”

Monte sighed exasperatedly as she combed fingers through her hair, slipping the black hair pins out of her meticulous up-do. Annoyed, she dropped them into a smug looking Slade’s palm as he snatched them up with a flourish of the wrist.

“No, ‘course not. I had a lovely night! Didn’t you?”

“Sure!” She chirped back, a sarcastic grin perched on her face as he turned away. “Until our nice trip out to the pub turned to be ulterior motive for breaking into somebody’s bloody mailbox.” 

It had already been suspicious enough to clamber over the short cobblestone half-wall to sneak into the apartment complex’s communal parking lot, but it was another thing to be huddled over the PO boxes like creeps. The apartments weren’t very well off, leaving the mail stations outdoors, tucked away from camera view if crouched behind a large van. Which was parked perfectly. Knowing Slade, he’d planned everything down to the last shard of gravel on the pavement. Monte’s feet were sore in her heels.

“It’s important. I think I found the guy that’s been blackmailing our girls. Remember what Lace said? The tall man with the curly black hair? Well—”

“Shut the hell up and pick the damn lock already. I am _not_ getting caught with your dumbass. The last thing I need is to call Mark as a solicitor. Again. Or ring up Danny for bail because you wanted to stick your fat nose into other people’s business. _Again_!”

He snorted with amusement but obliged, biting down his tongue. Besides, Monte was smart enough to get the gist of his plan. Find evidence, drop it off anonymously, throw the guy under the bus for using illegal pictures of minors to blackmail them. Questionably legal, sure. Good? Debatable, but Slade believed it to be. Perhaps wrongly, Monte did, too.

“You’re taking too bloody long. Move.” Her hips smashed against his as she rough-handled him out of the way. Using one of the pins as a lever, she maneuvered the tumblers with ease as Slade stood guard. The pins scraped quietly against the lock, and to her, it was the sound of a bow drawn across a great cello. She noticed the growing smile on his face in her peripheral and scowled after coaxing the metal door open. It swung creakily.

“What?” she demanded.

“It’s cute, seeing you pick locks all dressed up.” He was bouncing on his heels, bright eyes hungrily searching her frame in the dark night.

“This is not how I wanted the night to end,” Monte warned lowly, “so flattery won’t get you anywhere. Now look. Is there anything we can pin him on?”

Business first. Slade’s smile fell into a serious grimace and he pulled letters out of the slot, flipping through them hurriedly. Despite the racing heart, Monte couldn’t help but feel a sense of jittery excitement, like the many highs she’d coasted off of in her teenage years. Damn him for dragging her into these messes. Damn her for liking it. She took a shaky breath before noticing Slade’s gaze lingering on a certain envelope.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Jackpot. It’s the pictures. All of ‘em. And this one—” he handed her an envelope that was oddly boxy, “—must be the creep’s payments.” He had his phone out with lightning speed, quickly snapping photos, using the light of the streetlamp to avoid awkward flashes. She rummaged through the cash, her stomach turning at the sight of so many notes. She had half a mind to pilfer and pocket a few for her own, but barely managed to curb her desire. He returned the envelopes quickly, reaching in to scatter them so that they didn’t lay too neatly. Monte closed the mailbox’s door, wrenching her ruined bobby pins out of the lock and shoving them in her pocket as the duo crept back out of the complex. It felt like a year had passed, but it must’ve only taken ten minutes.

“Why d’you think he kept everything in the mailbox? Wouldn’t it be dangerous if the postman got curious?” she asked as they jogged along. She was trying to cool off the adrenaline high by playing it off casually. Lights seemed brighter and she felt like she was moving at a million miles an hour, just like after a good line, and she would’ve been lying if she’d said that the experience wasn’t nostalgic.

“Bloke probably felt some guilt. Didn’t want it in his house. But that didn’t stop him from doing it.” Slade’s nose wrinkled in disgust before looking down at her, the expression fading into a cheeky grin. He elbowed her, making her stagger a bit on the sidewalk. “We’re a good team. ‘Monte and Slade to detention.’ Good ol’ days, hm?”

“We’ve grown, Slade. Detention means a jail cell, not Professor Wesley’s classroom. But whatever. You owe me.” She wrapped her body around his arm, the chilly English night air seeping through the jacket Slade had thrown over her shoulders. Slade laughed.

“The bill wasn’t enough for you? Want to shake every pence out of my pocket?”

“I could still go for another,” she admitted. Her hands squeezed his arm. “I’m not tired anymore.”

“I don’t think a pub would take us this late.” Slade sighed, sentiment clouding his voice, dropping it an octave. He looked up as he walked, the bloated moon a blinding white spot in the velveteen sky. “Oi, remember when we used to walk around together like this until it got light?”

“I always liked night best,” Monte replied quietly. “Nobody would notice if I was gone.”

“Look at us now. Partners in crime, eh?”

“Don’t you dare. I would sell you out in an instant if you get me caught in one of your stupid vigilante schemes!”

“Monte, you’re breaking my heart!”

His warmth grounded her in the ethereal night. Everything looked ghostly, despite buildings being lit. Shop windows were dead, and not cars nor people nor ghosts dared to roam the streets. All but two souls. Though it could be argued that they were joined as one, wound up against each other, walking in time.

The night walks got darker. Sometimes they’d be running, hand in hand, blood in their teeth and knives in their hands. Sometimes they’d be still, ash in their hair, weight on their shoulders.

Partners. She would never let him go, and he never left her behind.

For now, they enjoyed their time in the oppressive night, reminiscing the death of the children who were so open to love in youth.


	4. flat whiskey

He might’ve acted stupid, but Slade was far from dumb. No, he was the smartest man most knew. He knew how to get blood out of a white polo. He knew how to get somebody to vomit up an overdose of codeine pills. He knew how to hotwire at least twenty-six makes of cars, crack several types of safe locks, and where to buy a gun or a liver. Maybe he failed his A Levels, but he was more dangerously cunning, for he knew how you ticked.

“I know you’ve relapsed. Don’t lie to me, for fuck’s sake.”

It was an immediate, visceral disgust that welled in her throat when she saw the disappointment in his eyes. Slade was quick, tossing a decorative fruit basket under her chin to catch the bile that rose up uncontrollably. Monte collapsed to her knees, coughing as acid burnt her throat. Slade rose, kicking the door shut behind him—the one he had broken down himself—and came back with a glass of water from the kitchen. She swished her mouth out miserably. His knees popped as he crouched next to her, a hand pressed to her forehead, pushing sweaty strands of hair back.

“You were clean for seven years. So what is it? Which is it now?” He snapped his fingers in front of her bleary eyes. “Diazepam? Weed? Codeine? Heroin? Cocaine?”

“Whiskey,” she spat. “Nothing… but alcohol. That’s all.” She swiped the back of her hand across her lips, letting out a small, sickly moan.

He sighed. Something like _it’s not as shitty as I thought, but pretty bad regardless_. Monte closed her eyes to fight the vertigo, hearing his footsteps echo around her as he began to clear things up. He didn’t seem to be the neat type, but Slade knew how to keep things tidy. After all, messes set off his father, and he got quite good at avoiding that kind of confrontation. Monte remembered it hazily, wincing at the dizzy rise of the painful past in her mind’s eye.

Finally, she felt him pull on her arm, more roughly than she would’ve liked. He tossed her onto her couch. She bounced on the cushion lifelessly, the stained blanket tightly wrapped around her like a homeless woman’s precious shawl. She didn’t dare catch his gaze.

“This it?” he asked. She didn’t look; the swishing of fluid in a glass bottle was the golden-brown whiskey that she’d been chugging non-stop. The sound might have been musical chimes. What day was it? She couldn’t remember. That must’ve been why he’d shown up to charge down her flat’s door. If she’d missed work, he would’ve figured it out quickly.

“Drink more water.” It was a one-way conversation and she was more than happy to let him do all the talking and care-taking. A part of her resented him for showing up, wanting to have more time to wallow in self-misery. Another was pleased that he cared enough to come at all. She took the glass and sipped at it slowly, the cool water incredibly bland after all the liquid fire she’d thrown down her gullet. She said nothing. She’d gotten too sick of having to be on her own and take care of herself. And after the news…

“What are you trying to run from?” he finally asked. He’d sat down beside her, watching her drink, but apparently, he could no longer keep it to himself. She was surprised that he hadn’t yet figured it out for himself. His hands were clasped tightly as he leant forwards on his knees, grimy hair wind-swept oddly across his temple.

“Noth—”

“Don’t you lie to me.” 

Water sloshed over her front, shocking her awake. He’d gripped her head by cupping both cheeks, upsetting the glass in her hands. His hands were ice against feverish skin. Shivering, she let him pull her face close to his, impossibly blue eyes boring into her own. His scowl was a deep crescent cut into handsome features.

“Monte, I can’t bloody help you if you won’t let me. You know this. Let me _help you_.”

“You’re such a good person,” she whimpered in response. The tears she had tried to fight for so long sprung up, rolling down her sallow cheeks languidly. They caught in the curve of her dejected smile. His grip slackened and her head bowed forwards, tangled hair falling like a curtain.

“You want to know? My mum finally died. I got the call. And you know what I thought? Thank _fucking_ God, it’s finally over. I’m such a shitty daughter, you know? Dad was a fuckin’ bastard, fine. But she was just coping. She did the best she could. But I hated her, too, and…” Monte shrugged, totally defeated. “It reminds me of Mark and how he felt when Jesse went missing. He was _broken_. My mum dies… I don’t feel a damn thing. Hence the whiskey!” A small hiccupping laugh of spite left her before it turned into a choking sob. She brought a shaky, skeletal hand to her eye to brush the tears away. “What does family mean when you don’t even love them?”

“Look, are you positively _stupid_ , Monte? That was it? And you didn’t think to talk to me first?” 

His hand returned to her face. Although the annoyance in his features radiated off in angry heat, his hand warmed up slowly against her jaw. Confused, she stared as he brought her back in, closer, so that her face rested against his shoulder. He was blocking his view of her. Even now, he gave her dignity. His voice was clear in her ear, husky as he whispered.

“I know what you’re feeling. Don’t think you’re alone. Don’t think that you’re evil, cos you’re not. You’re doing the best you can, I know, but you’re not alone. I’m your family. Mark, Danny, the kids at the shelter—we’re all your family.”

“I’m sorry,” she wept, crying openly. She never liked to. A street kid that cried? What other recipe for disaster was there? But she’d always been a crybaby, and now, without her sense of inhibition or self-worth, she emptied herself onto him. Slade shushed her quietly.

“You’re all right. I’m with you now. You’re not alone.”

Exhausted, drunk, and relieved, Monte fell asleep right then and there, halfway through a whimper as her hands slackened against Slade’s sweater. Her body was frighteningly light on his own, wet face buried deeply against his chest. If not for shallow breaths against his neck, he could’ve believe that she’d died in his arms. He sighed, his hands snug around her as they fell to her waist.

“You’re my family and _I_ love you. Don’t you know that…?”

No reply. He shouldn’t have expected one. Bad whiskey does wonders to dull the mind. By the time she woke up, she was confused as to why she no longer had a door. He didn’t have the heart to recount her memory gaps, nor did he have the courage to repeat himself from last night when she was already asleep. Even after he’d left to go back home, he could smell her raw scent in his nose, the purest form of _her_. And he uncapped a bottle of bad, flat whiskey of his own.


	5. black concrete

England wasn’t known for cheery skies and blazing sunshine. Westbridge fared poorly on the weather scale, always finding itself immersed in some fog cloud or windstorm. Monte pointed this very notable fact out to Slade, whose sigh came through as a rush of static on the phone.

“I know. I know it’s damp and miserable but I need you. She won’t trust me.”

“…fine.” 

The roads were slick. Black umbrellas paraded facelessly, hurriedly racing to their destination as to get out of the horrid rain. Wind tore at her hair, pelting droplets into her face like miniature razor blades. Monte kept her head down. The asphalt held a sheen to it, black enough to mirror the night sky if not for the muddy puddles pooling in between cracks. She winced as her socks soaked through, a misguided footstep plunging her into the way of a storm drainage route. It woke her up enough and she shivered, hurrying. Feet squelching, it was a long walk to Slade’s distress call.

Still, she went.

“There you are.” 

She saw his van first, the hideous blue monster lounging on the side of the road. She’d hated the ugly Mercedes, but Slade refused to exchange it, treating it as some misfit child. Despite her disgruntlement, the vehicle held memories that she wouldn’t want to trade in for the world. The side door was open, and Slade clambered out, peering through the rain and his hood. Monte’s brow furrowed as her eyes caught on the shivering girl, who was hugging her knees on the car floor. Dark, frizzy hair was plastered on her dark face, charcoal black eyes drifting left and right in her quiet daze.

“What’s happened?” Monte asked, hushed. Slade bent down so that he could hear her whisper.

“I found her wandering around. Tried to get her to come to the shelter but she won’t let me take her.”

“Why d’you think _I_ could help?” Monte hissed, taken aback by the severity of the situation. Slade shrugged.

“You’ve got a way with people.” Seeing the insecurity in her eyes, he lowered his voice. “Please, I wouldn’t’ve asked you if I had any other choice.”

“I’ll try,” she sighed. “You might’ve been better off calling Britnay.” 

Monte liked Britnay enough. _Enough_ being relative. Slade had doted on their newest recruit, in a way that Monte found to be cloying. She’d swallowed down her own emotions about it, but in the bitter rain, Monte felt hot angry resentment to be the only thing keeping her warm. Her eyes fluttered shut, but Slade’s voice was still clear.

“I don’t think so.” 

She reopened her eyes warily. Slade nodded once in silent encouragement. 

Why did she trust him so much? Why didn’t she leave him to his devices? What was it about his taste that kept her reeling back for more?

In any case… he’d won.

Monte stepped forwards towards the van. Carefully, she slotted herself in beside the girl. She paid no attention to Monte, Slade’s jumper limp on her bony shoulders.

“Hullo,” Monte said gently. “I’m Monte… could you tell me who you are?”

“Fuck off.”

 _Is that a family name?_ she thought to herself wryly. If it were up to her, she would’ve let the girl go on her way, since she clearly wasn’t looking for any help. But Monte’s eyes caught on Slade’s, and the reassuring nod wasn’t lost. Monte sighed, steeled her resolve, and tried again.

“Look… we don’t want to hurt you. Slade—that guy, right? He runs a shelter. It’s free. You don’t have to worry about a thing. All we want to do is get you out the rain and somewhere warm. Okay?”

“I told you that I don’t want your fuckin’ help!”

Monte felt the pain before registering anything else. It was dull and was a freezing burn, radiating through her bones as she stared down at the pitch-black concrete. Her eyes stung from the dirty rainwater kicked up, and hot tears rose to cleanse it from her cornea. The girl had pushed her out the van.

“Oi, you—! God dammit. Monte, you all right? You okay?”

He jerked her up as she struggled to re-orient herself, fingers gripping the kerb edge as she got to her fours. Slade looked at her grimly, eyes darting around her face frantically to search for any injury. Monte waved him off, wiping the tears from her stinging eyes to clear the blurry vision.

“Where is she?” she asked immediately.

“I dunno. She ran off quick. I’m sorry, let me get you in the car—”

“We’re going after her.”

Slad’s voice died in his throat. He wasn’t often surprised, but he stared, slack-jawed. Monte ground her teeth determinedly, climbing to her feet while wobbling.

“She was like me, Slade. She thinks she’s on her own… she thinks she doesn’t deserve any help… so which way did she go? Go on, get in and drive before she gets away!”

Wryly, a smile spread across his face and he nodded. The two got into the car, slamming the doors shut. The van screeched back out onto the road before she’d even buckled in, the old engine grinding as Slade ran it along. Monte’s hands were clenched into fists as she scanned the road, paying no mind to the new bruises on her fragile skin. She’d seen herself. Mirrors had never given her such fright until the smoke cleared away.

Later, much, much later, the girl cringed away. Monte sighed. The cotton pad hung in the air as the girl continued to shiver away.

“Sorry. Antiseptic stings, but you need it. Trust me.”

The shelter was empty at this hour. Slade had opened it back up for the girl. The chase had been tedious, for there were many nooks and crannies in the old roads of Westbridge, but they’d found her soon enough. She was a fighter, sure. But for once, Monte’s remarkable ability to cry all over herself seemed to soften the feral nature in the girl. Perhaps it was pity. Still, she begrudgingly allowed herself to be taken to safety.

“…my name’s Audrey.”

“What’s that?” Monte looked up after laying down the plaster on the girl’s skinny wrist. Audrey made a point of staring at the floor, frowning at the hardwood even as she kept her arm out for Monte to patch up.

“My. Name. Is. Audrey. Since you asked before…” she mumbled, drifting off, not wanting to continue. Wanly, Monte nodded in understanding.

“Ah. That. Hullo, Audrey.”

“I’m sorry for being rude.” She was scratching her matted head with the other hand, clearly feeling embarrassed, but she persevered despite being flustered. “Just that nobody’s ever been nice to me before.”

“Yes, well... Slade’s got a habit of sticking his big nose where it doesn’t belong. But he’s often right. I’m glad you came with us, Audrey. You okay?”

“You two blokes married or summat?”

“What?” Taken off guard by the odd question, Monte could only blink in bewilderment. The crude, foul-mouthed girl raised her lips to show off a sharp, crooked grin, eyes alight with discovery.

“Slade this, Slade that. I’m sick of it! First I thought youse was family, but it’s more, innit?”

“We’re not related, but he’s… er… like a brother to me.” For a woman who lied on forms every other day, she couldn’t lie for her life to a child. She cringed and Audrey giggled. The innocent sound relaxed Monte’s shoulders and she sighed, raising her eyes to Audrey’s despite the blush marring her face.

“Don’t tell him anything strange, would you? Keep off it. Please.”

“What, he ain’t told you? When he picked me up, he was all like: ‘my girl Monte is coming, she’ll make it right’… I didn’t want to go, so he kept telling me to wait for you. It was awful.” She made a disgusted face. Unable to help herself, Monte laughed gently.

“Really, now? Well, looks like you’ve got secrets to keep from both of us.”

“Ain’t healthy,” Audrey said, in a warning tone that was wise beyond her years. “Ain’t healthy, cos one of youse might be gone the next day. I learnt that… the hard way.”

“…yes. I know.”

“You fought for me,” Audrey continued testily. “So why en’t you fight for him?”

“Because…” she leant in close, so close that Slade—hidden behind the door, arms crossed as he listened intently—couldn’t hear.

“Bollocks. You’re a bloody moron.”

The two girls laughed. Slade smiled wanly, stepping away from the door quietly enough so that his footsteps would not be heard. He was pretty sure he knew, anyways.


	6. silver switchblade

“Here. Let me.”

Monte had been watching from the doorway, arms crossed across her shirt with disapproval. Slade groaned, placing his palms on the countertop and leaning forwards with annoyance. She had already come beside him before he could begin to complain, and begrudgingly, he handed her the silver switchblade. Training his clear blue eyes on her in the mirror, he watched her wipe her thumb across the short blade.

“I’ve got razors, you know. I could lend you one for shaving.”

“I’m not going to use anything else of yours. I already told you that I didn’t want you lending your flat to me like this.”

She sighed, the air thick with tension. “Sit,” she commanded stiffly. He obeyed wordlessly, knocking down the toilet lid and taking a seat. Only then was he at a short enough height for her to have access to his face and unsightly stubble.

“I told you. We’re like family. What’s mine is yours. You don’t have to worry about it or anything like that.”

The blade was sharp. He held his breath out of habit as she dragged the edge along the contour of his jaw. The movements were slow and languid, unlike his daily routine of scraping off whatever he could before heading out the door. He couldn’t help but shiver, the grating sound against his rough skin almost erotic. She flicked shaving cream into the sink before turning back, working off clean, precise lines.

“I am worrying. I don’t want to have to rely on you.”

“And what’s wrong with that? Do you feel emasculated like some sort of twelve-year-old boy?” she replied testily. A hand was on his shoulder to steady herself as she passed the knife across his delicate skin, and he remembered who was holding a deadly weapon to his throat.

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Since when’ve you lost your trust in me? Is it something I’ve done?” Her voice snapped like a whip.

“No,” he said hastily, “it’s not—”

“Because I don’t think you’re any much shittier for needing a place to crash. Mark told me that you sold your flat to keep the shelter afloat. It’s not weakness to ask for help, Slade.” 

She returned the knife edge to his chin, carefully carving out his sideburns. Her face was close as she worked, and he felt her breath as ice on his damp skin. A strand of her loose hair brushed him in a ghostly manner, and he had to fight the shiver in his spine to avoid an uneven shave. 

“I’ve been on my own for ages,” he murmured. “I’m not used to needing others.”

“You’re a bloody liar. That’s what.”

Before he could ask her what she meant, her fingers laid across his sensitive skin. They felt hot as she angled his face up to him, her messy morning hair falling to her chin as she leant towards him. For a moment Slade thought she was going to kiss him and closed his eyes, but then felt nothing. Her touch relaxed on his jaw.

“You’ve always had me. And you always will. So if you need anything… if you find that you can’t be on your own anymore… you’ve always got me. Would you please remember that? If nothing else… remember that you’ve got me.” Her eyes were heartbreakingly soft. He had never had to question her loyalty, but now, he questioned his own. Did he deserve to have her touch him like this? She seemed to see the doubt flicker in his eyes and grimaced, withdrawing.

“Rinse up,” she muttered. The hurt was clear in her voice. She was that easy to read. His knife clattered in the sink, reflecting the bright colours of her pyjamas as she turned to leave the washroom. He grabbed her wrist before she could.

His feelings always seemed to balance on razor blade edges. Things were always black and white as a kid. Yes or no. Good or bad. Things blended out into a muddy grey the older he got. Maybe. Bad, but good. For her… he was bad for her, and she was good for him. Her eyes studied him carefully, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Slade,” she prompted when he said nothing, frozen in place with his hand wrapped around her arm. “What?”

“I know,” he replied quietly. “You mean the world to me, Monte. I’m sorry if it hasn’t seemed that way.”

“…all right.”

She sounded hesitant, as if worried that he might be lying to her. Still, she accepted it with a vague nod, and slipped out of his grasp. He watched her leave, and then ran his fingers across his chin, the smooth skin bringing another cascade of shivers reverberate through his nerves. 

If black and white were continents, the grey was the ocean in between. It was as deep as she felt, the skin of her supple body hellishly good. In her virtue she broke him down. She was bitterly sweet. She was another side of the same sword, softly edged, with all the control in the world over him. She was darkly lit, in the way the sun’s warmth would linger in the night, and he ought to be damned for how badly he wanted her.

He took the switchblade out of the sink and delivered a sharp nick across one of his knuckles. The remainder of soap on its edge stung his raw flesh and he winced, relishing the clarity of mind the pain delivered. Bright blood welled in rubies on his skin, and he spied his reflection in the blade. For a moment, he thought he saw her.


	7. barrel fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoils!! spoils!!! S P O I L E R S!!!!!!! don't read if you haven't gone through with all of the five season 1 or it WILL be ruined!!!!!

“It’s time to talk, Slade.”

The pair of teenagers stood at the edge of one of Westbridge’s secluded lakes, matching converse sneakers damp in the marsh. No regular Briton would’ve heard of the town, what with its seclusion in ancient marshes and miles of sprawling green wilderness. Its isolation only made Westbridgians more attuned to their home. Slade, in particular, was very familiar with places to hide.

There was no formal name for the lake. The Five had named it after one of Jesse’s endearing, lisped outbursts, “Gulliver’s”. Fog rolled off of Gulliver’s pitch water’s surface, delicately, making the crass orange fire that warmed the both of their faces look even more unsightly. 

Despite the blazing heat and smell of petrol that choked the air, Slade shivered, his entire body jittering like a dying flea’s. Monte watched him disappointedly, and then turned her eyes back to the fire. They reflected the light, looking as if they were forged out of Hell’s coals themselves. Shadows elongated her face, aging her into a different girl entirely.

“Slade,” she said again, this time, less patiently. He didn’t blame her for it, but winced regardless. “You can’t ask me to do something like this for you and offer me no explanation. I don’t want to hear it later; I want to hear it _now_.”

“He fucking deserved to die,” Slade whispered in response, his voice uncharacteristically weak. Swallowing thickly, he closed his eyes and breathed shakily to dispel the nausea that arose with the bright red memories. The blood had felt so hot.

He was seventeen going on eighteen this year, and Monte, sixteen herself, had displayed tremendous strength when faced with his sin. In fact, it almost seemed like she was defeated in the way that she surrendered herself. Her hands rested in her pockets, casually, as if there was no blood under her nails. When she’d come to him, she’d merely looked down and went to work. Strands of forgotten hair framed her chin, like she hadn’t whipped it back to prevent dumping evidence on the scene. If God was not all-seeing, and just another man, he would’ve thought that the two disheveled kids were out at the lake for nothing but a contraband fag and innocent banter. Slade could only hope God was smiling down at him, and that every other man would think that the fire was meant for warmth only—that there wasn’t a dead one of the brotherhood scattered to the deities of the lake. He’d never been religious, but it chilled him all the same: _thou shalt not kill_.

But when he looked at her face, the sick in his blood almost seemed to lighten, for there was so much reassurance in her nonchalance that things seemed like they’d be okay after all.

“I don’t care about that,” she said succinctly. “I know you. If you’ve done something like this, I can only assume that you thought you were right. What I want to know is why you’ve called _me_. And, I want to know if you’re going to be okay.” Her hell-blazed eyes focused on him now, and there was nowhere to run from her soul-piercing gaze.

He’d spent a lot of time wondering, too. At one moment, he wondered if he should merely surrender himself. Surely, killing was bad, and he had to do penance for it. There was no way he could get away from this. All the coppers on the telly showed the bad guy up. Surely, there would be no way?

“You’re smart, ain’t you?” he muttered, self-deprecatorily as he continued to watch the fire burn. 

She wasn’t just smart; she was a damn genius. At least, he thought of her that way. Monte wasn’t Pru, but she knew how to work things out better than any mathematics whiz could. She somehow always knew what to do. Whether it was the laundry, or a physics problem, or how to get rid of a dead body… Monte always knew. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t contemplated ringing up Mark, his best mate. Monte hadn’t been his first thought. But… it wasn’t that she was bright. She just always _knew_.

The cold of the night and heat of the fire were two extremes on his skin, but he could only feel numbness. He ran a hand through his slick, greasy hair, matting it to his throbbing scalp. His breathing became shaky again, no matter how hard he tried to even it out. He couldn’t help but scoff at himself. There was no way he’d evade suspicion like this.

“’S not like I could call up the coppers and told them I’ve killed a bloke, could I?” he continued after she looked up to him. His voice shook, too, and he never felt more humiliated than he did under her gaze. Tears blurred the muddied ground as he hung his head. “I needed you to help me. That’s all. You should’ve said no if you didn’t want to.”

“Did you think I’d help you because I’m like you?”

Finally, he looked at her, the quiet in her voice surprising him more than any anger or fear might’ve. She seemed as calm as the lake’s surface, ripples of emotions too far from sight on her pretty features. She looked away after meeting his gaze, preventing him from spying on her thoughts.

“Whatever. That doesn’t actually matter. I want you to answer my other question. Now.”

“What?” He’d been in a daze ever since the realization of what he’d done, and could scarcely focus on the present. She took a step to him, and although she wasn’t touching him, he felt as if she was pressing against his chest to squeeze air out of his lungs.

“Will you be okay?”

“… I dunno. I really dunno.” He exhaled sharply and stepped away, hurriedly, unable to bear the weight he was imagining to be emanating from her small frame. He gripped his hair with both hands, struggling to keep down the contents of his stomach. Swallowing hard, he realized that she was sighing.

“Then I’ll tell you for you.” She did not turn to look at him. Instead, she pushed her hands deeper into her pockets, continuing to watch the hungry flames lap up air. He stole a glance as she shrugged, bored. “You’ll be okay. You _are_ okay. You were nowhere near Greenvalley, and you’ve only ever been on fieldtrips. You’ve never even been that close to Professor Sterling. You’ve no idea where he’s gone, but some people were mentioning that he was thinking of taking an impromptu trip to Rysston for half-term. You sure as hell didn’t know that he was touching the fourth years. All right?”

“Why?!” he gasped, suddenly breaking down as the heat of the flames became unbearable. He’d managed to hold himself together thus far, from the point of driving the point of a knife into that man’s fat gut to now. He’d bagged up the body with his own hands. He’d grit his teeth together as he hauled a grown man down the street, praying that nobody would notice. He’d hacked him to bits, starting with the head, so that he wouldn’t have to fucking face the monster he’d slayed. He’d done everything Monte had told him to do, but suddenly, he didn’t think he could follow her instructions. He didn’t think he’d be okay.

But he wasn’t cross at her. It wasn’t anger making his gut roil and his blood freeze into shards, cascading through his veins with painful urgency. Hearing her lay out a fucking script for his own benefit in such a confident voice—he couldn’t fathom _why she was still by his side_. 

_“I need your help.”_

_“Okay.”_

‘Okay’. That was all she had said. When she’d seen that he had literally fucking killed somebody, what had she said? ‘Okay’. And then she told him to start doing things to fix the problem. Like nothing had changed at all.

_You are okay. You’ll be okay._

He turned to her, grabbing her arm and clenching it tightly to make sure that she was actually there. His fingers dug deeply into her soft flesh, and he couldn’t even let go when he saw her wince in pain. 

“Why haven’t you left me behind already!?”

It took her no time at all to answer. 

“You’ve killed somebody and you can’t take it back. You say he deserved it? Fine. I won’t tell you to change your mind. I won’t ask to understand. I’m not your fucking pastor. I’m just here to help you clean up your bloody mess.” She slowly reached up, prying his hand off of her. Then, with a softness he could not have imagined, her fingers laced into his. They began to warm his fingers, which had been cold ever since they’d clenched the handle of the switchblade.

“I’m with you until the end of the line,” she said, a gentleness suddenly breaking out in her face, like the warm sun from behind bruised clouds. Her warmth was so different from the eager heat of the fire. She didn’t smile—she was far from something like that—but the genuine care underlying her tone nearly made him weep. 

He had been stupid then to not realize the hidden meaning behind the look in her eyes. They still glowed faintly like embers, but he should’ve been able to hear the _because I love you_. Sixteen and seventeen were too young, yet not innocent enough. Kids fuck around, fuck each other, fuck each other over—kids suck in toxins and screw around with death to see how close to the sun they can fly. Maybe he’d always gone a bit too high, but you—the precious lake they called Gulliver—caught him whenever his wings melted and he plummeted. He had never gone anywhere without her reassurance that things were okay.

‘Okay’ didn’t mean anything to him if it wasn’t in her voice.

She didn’t believe that she was very strong. She thought she was weak, but he couldn’t fathom how she didn’t see herself as iron and steel. He was the one that was weak.

He’d been stupid, and he’d always be. Even then, she didn’t ask, and he knew that he couldn’t promise that this would be the last trip to a barrel fire in the disapproving night. But she was the cold surface of the lake, soothing the angry licks of his flame. Together, they might’ve hurt each other more than help. He pulled her closer and buried himself deep into her, linking her to him, for he was too selfish to think of letting her go. She surrounded him, as water does, the grave that coaxes air from lips without resistance. Her smooth surfaces complimented the breadth of his wings, melted and broken as they were, and nothing had ever felt better than her lips against his ear whispering ‘it’s all right now’.

So it didn’t matter. He knew then that he loved her too. And he was too cowardly, proud, stupid, and selfish to say it, but she was smart enough to know.


	8. soaked hoodie

“Would you just open the _fucking_ door?”

He’d been out in the spring storm for hours, and he still hadn’t yet gone home. Monte could hear him pacing up and down the cobblestone stairs at the entrance of her flat, his feet heavy on the wet stones. The constant pitter-patter of rain scrambled any disgruntled sighs that might’ve crept through the door, but she could imagine the scowl on his face like she was staring right at him. A few moments later, she heard a loud _thump!_ , a sign that he’d sat down with his back to the door yet again.

“I’m not leaving ‘till you let me in,” he reminded, voice muffled but audible. A soft, repetitive knocking took place, and she guessed that he was banging his head back onto the faux wood. When that didn’t work, he groaned, taking on a dry tone. “I’m going to catch cold and die. It’ll be your job to roll me out into the street with your trash.”

She didn’t say anything. Even though he already knew she was home (evident by the fact that he hadn’t left her alone yet), she had no desire to speak to him. Being cross at Slade came like a tag with his friendship—he had that special personality that will always end up grinding you the wrong way—but they hadn’t had a real row in ages. She didn’t think she could bear to see his face.

“Look, I really am sore and sorry. Okay? Just give me a damn chance to prove it to you, would you? Please? Kick me out after, but I’m not leaving ‘till I say my piece.”

She’d gone into her room, tucked headphones in, hid in the kitchen. No avail. He was still out there. He’d flung pebbles at the windows, knocked for ten minutes straight, and still, he hadn’t yet _left_. Tears welled in her eyes and a hand hovered over the knob, before her fingers curled up and she walked away.

Why had they fought in the first place? Truthfully, it wasn’t a real fight. There was no fight. It was more of stupid heartbreak. 

A voicemail. Just one was enough, just as one lie is enough to shatter age-old trust. Just as one dissenter is enough to topple a nation, just as one rock through glass is enough to leave irreparable damage. She’d deleted it, unable to bear having it in physical existence—but she could never delete the memory. No amount of pettiness could beat the utter despair. She could never delete the memory of him, drunk out of his arse, saying _I love you…_

To Vanessa.

_“I really love you Vernessuh, I sheriously think yer’ the girl for me…”_

It was sickening. Worse, she didn’t even know Vanessa.

They’d dated different people in their lives. She’d ‘liked’ him in grade school, sure, but you always have crushes on the people you’re close to. You either grow out of it, or you hope to. In her case, she was still praying for it to end.

He slept around enough for a lifetime and she did her fair share of experimentation in post-secondary. She’d loved other people and been loved fairly. But she’d always be subject to unrequited hunger. It was a damn ouroboros of hopelessness. Maybe it was sentiment, or something deeper than the universe could prop up, but she couldn’t ever leave her feelings for Slade be. Even though her heart jumped with naïve dreams of hope, and her hands drifted with thoughts of him, she thought that she was smart enough to shut up about it. She thought that if she sat around for long enough, she might finally come to the finality that he wasn’t interested in her. Slade was a drifter, as was everybody from the place they came from. He didn’t _ever_ say ‘I love you’ in the way she wanted him to.

It was eternally cruel to be heartbroken by a fucking mistake. 

“Monte.” He’d been calling her name repetitively over and over, but this last one was soft. “I know you’re cross. I know you want nothing to do with me, so I promise. Let me in, let me apologise… and if you don’t want to see me, you’ll never have to. That’s my word.”

She was still pacing in the boot room before slowing at that. She didn’t want to cut him out of her life. She didn’t think she was over him enough for that. The only reason she paused was the tremble in his voice.

He’d always been so terribly confident, in no matter what bullshit he might be spouting. He didn’t waver in the face of fear, sadness, temptation, or disgust—he was a man built on steel resolve. He sounded strained, now, like that steel resolve was starting to succumb to the wind.

When she unlocked the door, he tumbled backwards onto the floor, clearly not having expected his backrest to suddenly disappear. He scrambled up from the ground, visibly shivering like a neglected dog. Cold wind blew in from outdoors and she winced. Maybe she shouldn’t have left him out to suffer for so long. But the other side of her, the one that was angry and broken and bitchy and winning against the other her, did not give one fuck.

“You’re in. Now leave.”

She made to close the door on him, but he’d already pushed his way inside. She pressed her palm flat to the door as she locked it, hoping the cold shock on her skin would help settle her tumbling emotions. The stare on her back made her stomach roil, and she still couldn’t muster the strength to face him.

“You know I didn’t mean what I said last night. I was drunk and—”

“I didn’t ask for an excuse!” she snapped, cutting him off before he could try and justify his actions and ultimately win her forgiveness. She didn’t want to forgive anymore. She didn’t want to keep surrendering herself to this man, this crystal blue eyed man she loved so _fucking_ much, the one that clearly didn’t feel the same. She hated herself for loving him so much. She hated herself for always being soft when he was broken glass; she hated herself for being addicted to that fucking toxic blue smoke. She hated him because she loved him too damn much.

The bitch in her screamed with glee as she stepped forwards, delivering a harsh slap across his face, ragged nails across skin and all. Anger. God, she was so angry. He stumbled further back into her house, clutching his cheek with wide eyes as she screamed hoarsely with frustration.

“I don’t _care_ anymore!” she cried, real tears streaming down her face now that the tides of emotions were pulling her under to drown. It scrambled her mental clarity as the fury became heavier and heavier, blanching her vision until she was left with nothing but a red plane of Hellfire. “I don’t bloody care what you have to say! I don’t care about _you_ , I don’t care about us! Just leave me the fuck alone, Slade! For fuck’s sake, would you just _leave_?!”

He waited for her to finish, hand falling from his jaw. She was already breaking down into uncontrollable sobs, her lungs seizing as her body felt compressed upon itself. Tentatively, he put a hand on her shoulder to steady her, only to have it flung away.

“ _Leave_!” she shrieked. “Leave, leave, _leave_!”

“I’m not going.”

She could only cry wordlessly in response. Speaking softly, his eyes fell to the ground with shame, his face blurry in her eyes.

“You’re a rubbish liar, you know? And it’s damn cold outside, so no. I’m not going to leave.”

“Please,” she whimpered, closing her eyes to block him from view. Choking on each breath, she let her head fall forwards with defeat. “I really can’t do it, anymore, Slade.”

“I’m serious. I didn’t mean whatever I said last night. I’m dead serious, Monte; I’ve never loved anybody as much as I’ve loved you.”

It was everything she had wanted to hear, but it hurt her. It hurt her because it felt _right_ , like things were falling into place, and that had never ever gone the way she wanted it to. She cringed away from him, backing into a wall while shaking her head with her eyes still closed, as if that might make it disappear. Out of sight, out of mind? She felt like a kid trying to pretend that Daddy still loved Mommy even as he did those things to her, and she to him, but it was fine because nothing bad would happen if you drew up the covers. Things were safer and better when things weren’t happening. But he kept talking, and she could almost feel the ghostly visage of his hands on her cheeks, making her shudder. It was too perfect, too _good_ , and nothing good ever happened to people like her.

“Leave me alone,” she muttered through ground teeth. “Just fucking get the hell out of my sight—”

His lips were coarse on hers, cold to the touch, drinking up the rest of her weak acridity. His tongue was fire in contrast, sweeping hard across her teeth, possessive with its sweet taste. Her strength felt like it’d dissipated immediately. Like it was stolen. Slade was a hard, rough lover, a kisser without mercy, a man who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer when he wanted something, and he didn’t let her dare to even think about taking a breath away from him. His large hands locked around her head, sticking to her hair because of rainwater. She felt his hair in her own hands as she tugged hard, desperate for air, which he only gave her in order to kiss her neck. Her gasps sounded pathetic in her own ears, nerves jumbled with conflicting lovers pleasure and pain.

“No. This doesn’t—this doesn’t just _fix_ —” she protested, but he had second thoughts.

“I’m cold,” he retorted, interrupting. His cotton hoodie was soaked through, divulging the muscular figure that pressed close into hers. The damp of his clothes seeped into her own skin, making her hands tremble—or maybe that was something else, something a little more carnal. The stickiness of water on his skin betrayed the creeping motions of his palms up her back, clinging to her fiery skin. She shivered with him, their bodies vibrating closer together.

“I love you.”

“No—” She had begun to shake her head again when he yanked her head forwards, kissing the air out of her lungs again, leaving her without response. His eyes were clear and determined.

“Monte, I _love you_.”

“I can’t take this,” she whimpered, her head spinning. She was aware of her body slumping into his, pathetically drawn to him as always. She couldn’t fight it, her fingers clutching his shoulders. “I can’t take always chasing after you, always hoping, always getting nothing but empty promises and lies—”

“Why d’you think I’m soaked through? I waited for you for _hours_. I waited for you for years. I always thought you were better than me, so I never…” He trailed off, figuring that she didn’t want to hear about him ignoring her romantically for the years that they’d been together. Honestly, he had kept his distance from her in the hopes that he could save her from himself—but he’d thought wrong, because she and he were the same soul anyways. There were different tastes of love in the world, and theirs ran deeper than words could tell. 

“You’re an _idiot_!” she wailed, but she was too weak to make it any louder than a whisper. Her head had collapsed down onto his shoulder, shuddering gently with rhythmic sobs. Rain beaded on the ends of his hair and fell onto her, bringing the storm indoors. His hands were abruptly gentle on her back, offering soothing support as she struggled to bite back her sobs. “You’re a fucking moron…”

“I know. I know. So let me apologise in proper.”

She raised her head with confusion, and he broke its impact into the wall with his hand. The surge of desire nearly shorted his mind out and he couldn’t keep pretending that things were going to fall back into normality anymore. He’d leapt off the point of no return because he fucking _needed_ her. Starving, it was as if he couldn’t take being away from her after having her—like magnets strain to come near each other, and never let go once they touch. He was desperate to wrap her into him and lap up her warmth for his own. He had always wondered, never wandered. He’d watched her grow up, after all—did she ever think of him like he thought of her? Could he be forgiven?

Now that he had her, he didn’t think he could ever let go, and he could only hope that she would accept him after what he was about to do to her. 

“I’m going to love you until you hate me,” he said under his breath, frantic, unable to mask his lust anymore. He drove himself deeper into her, until he could no longer distinguish rainwater from her tears. His lips grazed her sweet skin, and he closed his eyes like he might for penance at church. “I’m sorry.”

“Then fucking make it up to me,” she breathed in response, the air hot on his numb skin. Her fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, and he surrendered his mind to his desire. He’d always been a gifted orator, and an even better liar, but nothing could ever leave him on his knees other than her. His joints were stiff from cold, and her touch felt as if it was burning him, but he delved into her anyways. 

Fuck it. He’d always been stubborn.


	9. bruised knuckles

“Slade?”

His knee quit its bouncing when he looked up and saw her, her arms crossed around her body tightly even as she walked closer to him. It seemed like she was drawing away as she approached, repelled by the sight of him. He swiped a guilty hand back through his matted hair, wincing as the raw flesh on his violet knuckles stung. 

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed as the police officer beckoned for her to move to the counter. She ignored him, turning to the officer. The flash of weariness in her eyes cut him deeply. The two women exchanged quiet sentences and he watched her sign something, scrawling away at something like a release form. He felt like a shitty dog getting let out of a kennel, and it embarrassed him.

The two of them finally left the station in silence. His ass was stiff from sitting on a metal bench for ten hours and he limped along at her side. He wanted to say something, anything—but he didn’t know what, and he didn’t know how. The air was heavy and oppressive, choking the wits out of him, leaving him as a floundering mess of emotions. It was fucking disgraceful, and he couldn’t even meet her eyes. What kind of a man was he?

He clambered into the passenger’s seat of the car, shivering wordlessly in the frigid vehicle. The engine purred to life as she turned the key, and heat blasted through the vents, masking the quiet enough for Slade to regain a single moment of bravery.

“Would you say something, Monte—please?”

He heard her sigh through her nose. Her slender fingers drummed the wheel, sleeves pulled all the way up to shield them from cold. Before he knew what she was doing, she had already taken his left hand into hers, turning it over to examine the back. Her nails were plain but glossy, looking neat and prim, the dirt and grime under his seeming all the more disgusting in comparison. 

“You all right?” she asked emotionlessly, betraying none of her thoughts. Her eyes were downcast as a thumb traced a bruise, and he winced as a jolt of sharp pain ran up his nerves. But he didn’t dare pull away from her warmth.

“I will be,” he murmured. His mind raced to think of ways that he could keep her talking, to make things better. “Monte… I _am_ sorry.”

“I don’t doubt that. I’m sure you did what you thought was right. Getting caught was stupid, though…” She trailed off, and then let go, reaching over him to the glove box. The movement wafted her smell to him as the hood of her jacket brushed his chest, and he shuddered. She retrieved a first-aid baggie and unzipped it, pulling out a packet of gauze. Expectantly, she laid her palm out, and he hesitantly put his hand back into hers.

He didn’t want to apologise again, but it was all he could think of doing. Her hair slipped out from behind her ears, a strand dangling by her chin as she leant forwards to bandage his hands. He could feel time slowing in his veins as he watched her, distantly, like a child would look up at the stars in such wonder. A single woman could paralyse him and make him feel like such a damn fool.

“I love you, y’know?” he blurted out, so suddenly that he even surprised himself. Her fingers froze around his, and he saw the faint shadow of her eyelashes flutter against her cheek. His hand had already raced up to cradle her cheek before she could even resent him, and he hated himself for that—he hated himself for being such a fucking _brat_ , for needing her so much—but the feel of her soft skin destroyed him. He felt the wave of regret eat at his bones as the silence stretched on and on. 

“Yeah, Slade. Yeah, I know.” She sighed, the warm air ghosting over the hairs of his arm as she leant into his touch. Her eyes closed exhaustedly. “I know… that’s what you believe.”

“I…” The ache in his hands was nothing compared to the sharp drop of his gut. The pain of his nails digging into his palm was nothing compared to the ice shards in his veins, driving fear and panic to each and every cell.

“How could you think that?” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m being honest.”

Her eyes re-opened, the irises glistening in the faint moonlight that was gracing the air as if they were pearls. The pattern in them seemed like flowers, and the well of tears gave her a soft vulnerability like the velvet of rose petals.

“How do I _know_ that? You said you’d change, and here I am, picking you up from _jail_.” She leant away suddenly, her hair caught in his fingers as she turned her face away. His hand remained frozen in the air as she continued. “It’s like it’s always been. I’ve resigned myself to that. So I know, Slade, I know that you believe it’s right.”

“And you _don’t_?” he breathed.

“I don’t know what I bloody believe.” She turned back to him, the traces of tears ending at the edge of her tired smile. “I know that you hurt me when you hurt yourself; that I’m pathetic when I cling to you, that I’m everything I thought I would never become—” She paused her rambling to inhale shakily, and then shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Then believe _me_.” Hungrily, he grabbed her wrists, before relaxing his grip. He pulled her towards him and she followed, resisting for only a moment before his lips slanted over hers. He coaxed them open, his tongue only gently swiping over her taste before he forced himself to pull away. His hands still remained circled around hers, his forehead pressed hard against hers as he looked down into her eyes.

“I don’t know if I can change. But you can’t, either. We’re the same, don’t you see? We need each other—no, _I_ need you.”

He sounded frantic, and quite honestly, he was probably mental in a way that couldn’t ever be righted. But he knew that she made him feel better, and that was hard to find outside of smoke and needles. He knew that even if it wasn’t the truth in her world, it was in his: that she cleared the fog that always seemed so heavy on his shoulders. Nothing would ever be the same without her. He could never lose her. Growing up poor made him well adapted to judge the important things, and he was the most important thing in the entirety of his pathetic life. If he wasn’t in hers, fine—but he’d fight to Hell for her.

“Let’s go home.”

It was a strange response to his hysteria and he started, confused. She slipped out of his hands in that moment before gripping the one she’d already bandaged. There was a small, crooked smile on her face that made Slade’s heart kick, and she even laughed.

“What?” he asked, befuddled by the sudden change. 

“I hate you, Slade. I _hate_ that you’re always right… but you are. We’re both fucked in the head. So maybe it’s best that we stick together.” She turned forwards and put the car into reverse, saying nothing after that. It was enough of an ‘I love you’ that he was going to get from her, and he had to be okay with that for now.

As she pulled onto the road, he glanced down at the other hand, the unbandaged bruises looking vaguely surreal in the late night. He clenched them into a fist, before looking over at her side profile. Quietly, he slipped one of her hands away from the wheel, taking it into his own. Her touch soothed the pain. It always did.


	10. honest love

It was finally the day of Danny’s wedding. It was surprise to none that the most down-to-Earth, reasonable one of the five was the first to settle down. Pru was MIA in America, not having responded to the RSVP Danny had chucked her way. Nobody actually expected anything to come back. Mark was still far too hung up on that and far too damaged from the loss of Jesse— _still_ —to be hanging around any altar of his own. 

As for Monte and Slade… _ordinariness_ wasn’t something that came by easy for them. Shit parents and constant bouts of shit luck were enough to cultivate a constant doubt of the good—a constant skepticism of what was meant to be the normal, ideal life. Everybody was mourning something, and for them, they were always followed by the deaths of their optimism. 

It wasn’t that their relationship was _bad_. Nobody was shocked to hear that the two had finally hooked up. Mark had even teased that they ought to have come out and admitted it sooner. God knows that things had gone back and forth for ages. Despite both of them always having known, nothing was ever really officialised until now. Even now, though—even though they were two big kids that could make big kid decisions about their adult lives—she couldn’t quite believe it. It wasn’t that they were perfect, but they were good. That was the problem. It was far too much for Monte to suddenly be able to accept that _good things_ were actually happening. On the other hand, Slade was really trying and coaxing, and getting shite in return. So perhaps that reservation and mistrust of Slade was sparking up the mutual tensions between them.

Still, they both put it aside for Danny’s sake, and smiled together in unison as their old friend greeted them at the gate.

It was almost funny how the group of friends had functioned in its dysfunction. Just as all young kids, relationships and drama had bounced around like a game of hot potato. Monte had even had a go with Danny for a short while. Slade’d gone around Mark with Pru, and tracking those stupid teenage flings might as well have been impossible. It was like juggling puzzle pieces before finding the right one. Good for him, for Danny had done just that. 

“You’re ready then?” Monte asked him after parting from their hug. The smiles of the other guests were infectious and she couldn’t wipe it off her face. Feeling stupid, she felt the need to jibe at him: “If you’ve got cold feet, we’ve still got the engine hot.”

“Well, I’m nervous as hell,” Danny replied, rubbing his hands together anxiously. He took a deep breath before nodding sharply. “But I’m good. Thanks.”

It was enough reassurance for her. Things had always been shaky in their rising adulthood, problems always stemming from Jesse’s disappearance. Things really changed for the worse after that. Pru left, Mark was always different, and Slade… well, Slade had always been a wildcard. Danny hadn’t had it any easier, what with his father leading the investigation into the Wells. Some things just felt unavoidable. Some clouds seemed to never lift their haze. Yet the sun was warm on her face, for even the constant English fog had lifted for Danny’s special day.

She gave him a pat on the back and went back to her seat. Slade was waiting, legs widespread with a social media feed bright-lit on his phone. She gave him a harsh knock to the side of the head, startling him into upright posture.

“This is Danny’s wedding!” she reprimanded, feeling as if she was scolding a child. He rolled his eyes.

“Fuck, thought this was my nan’s! Leave me be, Monte. It’s not even begun, so settle down.”

The banter wasn’t anything different than the norm and she rolled her own eyes, crossing her legs as she sat back into the pew. Danny had chosen a church for his wedding, which had garnered her contempt of all things meant to be ‘right’ once again. Her gaze had drifted over to Slade without her conscious will, her eyes tracing the curve of his jawline. Sun streamed through the floor to ceiling window features, making his eyes glow even brighter than usual.

Did fate exist after all? Were things meant to happen? Were things forever to be out of your hands?

“Oi.” 

She was suddenly aware of Slade snapping his fingers in her ear. She swatted him away, her thoughts having spun too hard for her to realize he was trying to talk to her.

“You all right?” he asked suspiciously. “Are you going to cry?”

“No!” she snapped, although it was within the realm of possibility if either the bride or groom began to shed tears. “I’m okay, just thinking.”

“Are you thinking of getting hitched now, too? Because we ought to.”

The question was so direct and blunt that it didn’t even register. She was halfway through a dry laugh before she realised what he’d said. The genuine shock that froze her face was amusing enough for him to crack a mischievous smirk. She’d sat up stick straight, leaning towards him slowly as if drawn by gravity.

“Are you fuckin’ _ser_ —?!”

He shushed her before she could continue her outburst, and she realized that the pianist had already begun to play the dreadful song. People turned back to look at the large wooden doors, eagerly awaiting the entrances after giving her a nasty glare. Slade winked at her, slinging a casual arm around her shoulders like he hadn’t just popped the question on her arse in the middle of somebody else’s wedding.

“Can’t steal Danny’s thunder,” he muttered under his breath, leaning close to her as the family began to file in, arms linked. His lips grazed her ear and she could feel the smug grin tingle on her skin. “But do catch the bouquet, will you?”

“You _are_ serious,” she breathed, wide-eyed. She was desperately trying to swallow the joy and annoyance that was coming with the realisation that Slade had bloody asked her to marry him in the absolute _shittiest_ way possible. For Danny’s sake, she didn’t cuss him out just yet, and settled for knocking him in the ribs as hard as she could. 

Was that it? Were things pre-determined? Was free will a mere illusion?

She didn’t think it mattered. 

She settled back into the bench, watching dreamily as Danny pulled back his bride’s veil. A lot of things didn’t matter; a lot of things never had. Her own mortality was a speck in the flow of time, the flame of now, and nobody would remember her in the plains of the future.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was now—what mattered was _him_.

They’d been through so much. Too much? Maybe, but they had a bond together that wasn’t ever going to degrade. Even once life and memories go, she’d still love him. She didn’t believe in God or Heaven or souls or anything like that, but she believed in him. 

“I love you,” he mouthed, his hand over hers. 

Slade—who was he? What was he? He was the crunch of dead pine needles at night; a pub full of young, drunk lovers; the fray of an old jacket; the black-and-blue motley of bruises after a fistfight; the glint of napalm fire off of somebody’s eyes; the love of her shitty, miserable life.

He was finally honest. 

She leant her head on his shoulder. “I love you too,” she murmured.

The blue smoke cleared.

**Author's Note:**

> Elsewhere: https://goo.gl/GSLM6c


End file.
